


uncurling lifelines

by mywordsflyup



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amell as Arcane Advisor, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4147440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/pseuds/mywordsflyup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Cullen recognizes her at once but she looks nothing like his nightmares.</i>
</p><p>AU: Instead of Morrigan, Amell becomes the Arcane Advisor to Empress Celene. During the ball at the Winter Palace, she meets Cullen for the first time in ten years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. belly of the beast

The ballroom is a glittering sea of jewels and gowns and deception. And she hates every part of it. 

Once, she might have been intrigued by it. The worldliness, the excitement of it. She faintly remembers a girl in a tower, tracing the illustrations in library books. Kings and queens, cities and castles. But that was another life, perhaps. It must have been. 

She sighs and picks up a tall slender glass from a passing tray. The music swells. People have started dancing. A stiff, lifeless display. She winces - not sure if at the too sweet wine or at her own cynicism. 

No time to ponder now. There is work to do. There is always work to do at the Winter Palace. 

She makes her way through the crowd, letting her gaze wander over strange and familiar faces alike. Seemingly innocent, just another guest taking in the atmosphere. Most people don’t know her face, even if they whisper her name when they think no one is listening. 

She runs a finger along the rim of her glass, leaving a trace of ice in her wake. She stuff is almost drinkable when it’s cold. It’s a subtle move and she doesn’t think anyone else noticed. She has gotten good at that, subtle. 

_Subtlety keeps the apostate safe_ , someone once told her. Or maybe they told the girl in the tower. I doesn’t matter now. Subtlety has kept her alive, even more than the title she carries like a shield nowadays. Arcane Advisor. It still makes her wince. 

She’s a healer but nobody cares about healing here. They care about power and about secrets. Magic old enough to rip the world apart. Magic that is not theirs to wield. But when have they ever cared about that? They who built their empire on stolen ground. 

From the corner of her eye, she spots a man in one of the red uniforms the Inquisition wears. Dark-haired and handsome. From the way the veil folds itself around him, she can tell he is also a mage. The Tevinter, she guesses, but he is gone from view before she can find out more. 

She has watched the Inquisition all night. Seen their agents slinking through the shadows of the palace. And once, the Inquisitor herself, surprisingly quiet and graceful for a Qunari. But not as quiet as a Circle mage. 

She knows that _he_ is here as well. Some part of her has not been able stop thinking about it, if she is honest with herself. It’s silly. The anxiety of a young girl. One more relic from that other life. Something she has locked away together with dreams of kings and castles. 

This is the real world, she tells herself as she empties her glass. With an empress she should be guarding and assassins she should be hunting. But when she lets her eyes wander over the room once more, they spot something else. 

He has been cornered and even from afar she recognizes his distress. Even after all these years, she can read his body language like an open book. The way he hunches his shoulders and strains his neck as if he could slip out of his own skin if he only tried hard enough. She does not need a clear look at his face to see that he would rather be anywhere else than here. Orlesian nobles can be relentless, she knows. And once the sweet wine starts flowing there is no escaping their advances without a scary title and a shield of rumors to ward them off. And Cullen Rutherford has neither of those. 

She stops one of the elven servants bustling around the room. It’s a skinny, dark-skinned boy with a pointy face she recognizes. 

“Aman, right?” she asks as he takes the empty glass from her hand. He looks up, surprise darting across his face before he averts his eyes and nods. 

“Yes, madame.” His voice is a shy quiet thing that speaks of too many years trying to go unnoticed around people who would cut him down for just one wrong word. She does not know if she more angry or sad about it. She remembers a life like this. Always afraid, never truly safe. 

“It’s alright,” she says, knowing that it will never be enough. “I just have a question.” 

Aman looks up again, a bit more confident now, and slowly nods. 

As discreetly as possible, she points towards the huddle of nobles surrounding Cullen. “Do you know this man?” 

Aman takes a quick look and nods again. “He is with the Inquisition, madame. Their Commander, I believe.” 

“And the people he is with?” 

“Visiting nobles, mostly. Two of Comtesse Dupont’s daughters. Lord Morin and his cousin Lady Lemaire.” Amar cranes his neck a bit to get a better look. “I’m afraid I do not recognize the other two ladies, madame.” An almost cheeky smile flashes over his face. “I don’t think the Commander appreciates the attention.” 

She sighs. “I think you’re right about that, Aman.” She dares another quick look over her shoulder. “In your professional opinion, what would be the fastest way to free the Commander from this unpleasant situation?” 

She enjoys this. Aman leans in a bit closer. She can see that he is more relaxed now. Some of the stiffness in his shoulders is gone and there is an almost conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. 

“I would say that the only way the Commander could excuse himself from these nobles would be if he were on fire.” He grins. “Or if someone spilled a drink on his finery.” 

“As much as setting the Commander of the Inquisition on fire would liven up this ball, I think the latter option would be a bit easier to accomplish.” 

The smile curling Aman’s lips vanishes a quickly as it has come. It is replaced by sheer terror, realization dawning on his face. “Madame, please,” he whispers. “Please don’t ask that of me.” 

For a moment, she is too confused to answer, still trying to grapple with the changed mood. Then she slowly understands. Hot shame creeps up her cheeks. Asking an elven servant to spill a drink on a guest of the Empress? She might as well kill him herself right on the spot. 

“No!” she exclaims a bit too loudly. “Maker, of course not!” 

Aman still looks wary. His eyes dart between her and the huddle of nobles in the background. She feels guilty for even putting him in this position. Quickly she takes a full glass from the tray in his hand. A red wine this time, so dark it’s almost black. 

“Don’t worry,” she says and tries for an encouraging smile. “I will do it myself. And thank you for your help, Aman. I will not forget it.” 

There is a hint of bitterness to the smile Aman gives her. “If it’s all the same to you, madame, I’d prefer it if you did.” He takes a small bow before vanishing in the crowd. 

For a moment, she watches his back as he weaves his way through the guests. She taps one finger against the glass, considering her options. Behind her she can hear the snickering of Cullen’s admirers. Helping him would be the right thing to do - even if it means revealing herself to him. Even if it means completely abandoning her actual purpose at this ball. 

She sighs as she turns around and starts making her way towards the little group in the corner. With every step she takes, her heart becomes a bit heavier. He has not spotted her yet, too wrapped up in warding off wandering hands. He looks different. Taller, his shoulders a bit broader, perhaps. But his face is almost same, just with more lines and even more scars. 

When she is finally close enough and he notices her, she sees something else she recognizes. In his eyes, there is a hint of the pain, the panic, she remembers from the last time she saw him. She has planned to spill the drink but when his eyes meet hers, she does not need to fake her stumbling. 

She lurches forward. Wine spills over the front of his uniform before the glass shatters into a thousand pieces on the marble tiles between them. And even then, in the moment of chaos and recognition, he reaches out, catching her before she can fall to the ground.

He speaks a word then. Her name. She has not heard it in a long time. 

At the sound of his voice, she looks up. Sees his face and knows. 

She has made a terrible mistake.


	2. monument of a memory

Cullen knows he is in Halamshiral. At the Winter Palace. Knows the feeling of the sturdy wall behind his back and the unmoving ground below his feet. He knows some of the people surrounding him, if only just by the look of the masks, and out of the corner of his eye, he can even see Leliana. Another familiar face. He is at Halamshiral. He is working. He is awake. But some part of him does not seem to realize it. 

He can feel his heart racing, his palms sweaty under the soft leather of his gloves. Every nerve in his body is tingling, every muscle tight with anticipation. Ready to run. But he can’t. He takes a shaky breath. His body is reacting to a danger he cannot see. A danger that is not even here. It’s an old panic. A fear that stretches so deep into his past, it has become part of him. 

Another breath. He has to focus. Before the world becomes blurry, mixing the old with the new until he cannot tell what’s real and what’s a memory. Before his blood starts singing, searing his veins with a familiar blue ache. 

There is no need for that, he tells himself. He is safe. He knows what’s real. The wall, the ground, the masks, Leliana. The wall, the ground, the masks, Leliana. The wall, the ground...

And then, out of the corner of his eye, a sudden movement. A woman. Curls, an emerald green dress, a glass of wine. And a face. A face that has haunted him almost every night for ten years.

Cullen recognizes her at once but she looks nothing like his nightmares. 

He can feel his heart stop, his chest so tight he cannot breathe. But his body reacts regardless. He hears the glass shattering on the floor, a sound that cuts through the ringing in his ears. One hand reaches for hers while the other grabs her elbow. She looks up and her eyes lock with his. Eyes that belong to a dead girl. 

Even through his gloves he feels the slight pressure of her fingers as she curls them around his. Just the lightest touch but it is all he needs. She is solid bone and flesh and beating heart. She is real. 

She is alive. 

He lets out a breath, wants to say something but no words come out. None but the name that tumbles from his lips. Her face contorts into a grimace of shock. She knows him, he has no doubts about that. But there is more. She sees something else when she looks at him. 

An angry murmur rises up around them like the buzzing of flies. She has disrupted the Orlesian nobles in their favorite game. The shock on her face is replaced by apologetic smile, an expression as stiff and fake as any of the masks around them. 

“I am so sorry, Commander!” 

Her voice. It cuts through him deeper than any knife could. He closes his eyes at the sound and grabs the corner of the table, afraid he might float away if he doesn’t. He feels a hand on his chest, a slight pressure that makes him look down. 

“We will need to wash this out immediately if you don’t want stains.” 

What is she talking about? The front of his uniform is wet, a huge dark blot across his stomach. The shattered glass. The wine. Slowly his brain works through the haze.

She links arms with him, her small hand steady on his forearm. He has not even noticed how rigid his body has gotten until he tries to move it. But she leans against him, just slightly, and pushes him forward. Two quick steps, the rustling of silk, and they are out of the circle of encroaching Orlesians. Another angry murmur arises but she pays them no mind as she firmly leads him through the crowd. 

He has to keep himself from looking down, from staring at her profile. Some part of him remembers that she has never touched him like this - not outside of his nightmares anyway. He does not remember the touch of her hand on his arm or her body pressed against his side. But he knows this is not a nightmare. She is real and she is not a demon. He is almost surprised by the certainty he feels but he has seen enough of them to know the difference. So somehow, the most unlikely answer of all must be the right one. 

It’s really her. And she’s alive. 

He does not notice where they are going until she pushes open a white double door and they step out into the cool night air. They are in the gardens and as the door shuts behind them, the noise of the ball fades away. It’s a small secluded alcove, hidden from view by high hedges and a small burbling fountain. 

As soon as they are out of sight, she releases his arm and takes a step back. Her hands are slightly raised and her expression wary as she watches him. He takes a deep breath, not quite as shaky as before. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he crosses and uncrosses his arms. His heart is still racing but some of the tightness is gone from his chest. Somehow, the most impossible, the one sight he has feared more than anything else for the last ten years, has ripped him out of his panic. It does not make sense. 

He doesn’t know what to say, so when he opens his mouths the only words that fall out are the ones that have been running through his mind since the moment he saw her face. 

“You are alive.” 

She looks stricken. Slowly, she takes another step back. Several emotions rapidly flash across her face until she settles on something he can only read as sadness. 

“You thought I was dead,” she says and for a moment he thinks she sounds almost disappointed. It’s not a question but he nods regardless. 

Even in the dim light of the torches, he can see how much she has changed. He never allowed himself to think about what she would look like if she had made it out of the massacre. Now that he has the answer to a question he never asked, he does not know what to do with it. She seems smaller, somehow. But perhaps he is the one who has finally grown into his armor. Her hair is a few shades darker but still as full and curly as he remembers, twisted into one of those ridiculous Orlesian pleats. By the way she fidgets underneath his gaze, he suspects that she feels just as uncomfortable in her formal dress as he does in his finery. 

But most of all, he notices the scar that runs along her throat, like a necklace of bright twisted flesh. Whatever wound caused this, it could not have been a clean cut. It looks like somehow tried to rip out her throat. When she notices him staring, her fingers find their way to her neck, ghosting over the scar. The look she gives him is one of well-tried defiance and he quickly averts his eyes.

The silence between them is so heavy he can scarcely breathe. Both of them are suddenly lost for words, when there is so much to say and not enough time in the world to say it. 

Some part of Cullen is aware that he should not be so calm about this. He is still waiting for the shock to set in. Isn’t that what is supposed to happen when a girl you thought dead steps out of your nightmares and back into your life? 

She looks at him like she is asking herself the same thing. Eyes wide and shoulders tense. He cannot read it her - but then again, he has never been good at that. To him, she was always an enigma of kind smiles and hushed whispers and fingers halting just inches from his. In the end, the nightmares twisted that as well. 

He has often tried to recall when he had seen her for the last time. The real her, not some demon taking and breaking her form until every last drop of her essence was gone from his memories. But he cannot remember, even now. 

She watches him, waiting for the question they both know he has to ask. 

“You escaped the tower, then.” 

“I did.” The look she gives him is wary. She turns from him a little bit, as if to hide her face. 

“How?” The days following the liberation of the Tower were a haze of pain and confusion. Sometimes he is glad for the lost memories. But he knows he looked for her. He must have. But the once familiar halls of Kinloch Hold were nothing but blood and gore and death. Has some small part of him not been glad that he did not find her likeness in any of the mangled corpses’ faces? 

“In the chaos afterwards, it was easy to slip away unnoticed. Especially when…” She does not finish the sentence but her hand flies up to the scar on her neck once more, a wistful expression on her face. 

_When everyone thinks you’re dead_ , he finishes for her, in his mind only. But as quick as her defenses come down, she raises them back up again. Fingers flexing, then rolling into a fist at her collarbone. She looks startled, almost a bit offended. 

“I am…” he starts, before she can pull away completely. “I am glad for it.” 

Definitely startled now. Whatever her expectations might have been, he has not met them. But for the life of him, he cannot decide if that is a good or a bad thing. He is not the young Templar trying to impress her anymore, he reminds himself. 

She cocks her head, so slightly he might have missed it if he weren’t looking at her so closely. The movement is so familiar and yet so new, he can feel the breath catching in his throat. He has forgotten that she does that. He thought he remembered everything. Even the smallest thing burned into his memory forever. But here she is, cocking her head, and it’s all coming back to him. How could he forget? 

_There comes a smile afterwards_ , he remembers. _A small, bashful curve._

But it doesn’t come this time. Instead, she purses her lips and averts her eyes. He can feel her slipping away. If he does not say it now, she might not be willing to hear it later. She might just slip away again, back into a realm of dreams and memory where he cannot follow.

“In the aftermath,” he says, “I was not myself.” It’s a poor choice of words, not enough of the truth, and he corrects himself. “Or perhaps I was. But it was a version of me I would not recognize today. The things that happened at Kinloch Hold…” He swallows. “They changed me.” 

She looks at him now, something resembling anger crossing her face. “Kinloch Hold changed us all.” 

He considers this for a moment. He knows it’s true, he feels it in his bones when he looks at her. She is not the same, neither is he. There are scars that go deeper than skin. 

“I wouldn’t have wanted for you to see me like that.” Shame creeps up in his gut and he almost welcomes it. It has always been a reminder for him. “The things I said… The things I did…” He cannot even finish the sentence, even after all these years. 

“I know what you asked of the Wardens.” She speaks quietly but every word cuts him like a knife. “I know that you hated us after what the demons did to you. I know about Kirkwall as well.” 

He has been confronted with his past before. Had to defend himself. Had to explain. None of it hurt like the disgust on her face hurts him now. 

“I won’t deny the things I’ve done,” he says through gritted teeth. “But I regret them. I’m not that man anymore.”

“I’m afraid I’m all out of medals today, Commander.” There is nothing joyful about her mocking. Not with the anger gleaming in her eyes.

“You don’t know what it was like,” he hisses before he can stop himself. “After Uldred. After the Wardens left. How could you possibly know? You just ran!” He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. He might as well have struck her, judging by the look of hurt that flashes across her face. He waits for the thunder after the lightning but it doesn’t come. 

She steps back, slowly shaking her head. “You were sweet once, Cullen. Look at you now.” She makes an all-encompassing gesture and somehow it feels as if she sees it all. The scars, the rigid posture. The muscles in his jaw, so tense it sometimes hurts him just to smile. The nightmares full of versions of her. A kaleidoscope of memories, distorted beyond recognition. 

“Sweetness is for children,” he says. “I think we both learned that the hard way.” 

A veil of silence falls between them.

Then, almost like an afterthought, a bells tolls in the distance. She looks up, a half-muttered curse on her lips as she gathers the skirts of her dress. 

“I need to go.” 

He reaches out, sure that if she leaves now he will never see her again. Despite everything, the thought alone is enough to fan old fears. But just like back then, he stops just short of touching her. She looks down to his hand hesitantly hovering just inches from her. 

When she looks him in the eyes again, he finds a trace of the old kindness in her face. “I’m sorry, Cullen. Truly.” 

He watches her leave. A whisper of silk as she hurries through the garden. When she is out of sight, he can almost pretend she was never even there. Almost, if it wasn’t for the dark stain on his finery and the furious heartbeat in his chest.


	3. in order to live

Talking to the Inquisitor is like standing on a frozen lake in the middle of the night. A glistening black surface underneath her feet and nothing but the reflection of her own panic staring back at her from below. She says the wrong thing and can feel the ice crack. 

“Deliverer from Darkness?” The Inquisitor scowls at her and her heart beats so fast it almost hurts. She is not afraid of the tall woman in front of her but she would be an idiot to underestimate her. Inquisitor Adaar is impressive, in every sense of the word. She towers over most, an imposing figure of dark skin, gold-tipped horns and bright eyes. 

It was a mistake to repeat the silly title Gaspard had called out, already half-drunk on sweet wine and sweeter victory. The Inquisitor is no fool. From what she has shown the Court tonight, she plays the Game better than most of them. And a title like that is never going to be said without at least the slightest hint of irony. She might have put Gaspard on the throne but he will never see her as an equal. And neither will the rest of the Court. They would rather fear than respect her. 

Under the Inquisitor’s scolding gaze, Amell bows her head, eyes fixed on the marble floor below. It was stupid mistake. One that she would have avoided if she had not been so rattled by the events of the night. No use in denying it when Cullen’s face is all she sees whenever she closes her eyes. His words echo through her until she can feel them resonate in her bones. 

_Sweetness is for children._

“You must excuse him,” she says. “He is drunk and prone to awkward phrasing.” 

When she looks up, she finds the Inquisitor smiling, although there is no joy in it. “So I have noticed.” A sigh follows and for a heartbeat, the Qunari’s unmoving face is betrayed by a hint of weariness that flashes through her eyes. “What is it that you want, then?” 

The ice is thin and she only has one chance at getting this right. Preferably before Gaspard sobers up or grows tired of harassing the servant girls. Before he remembers her. 

“By imperial decree, I have been named liaison to the Inquisition.”

The Inquisitor cocks an eyebrow, expression still unreadable. “Have you now? And what exactly am I supposed to do with that?” 

“I am to accompany you to Skyhold. Gaspard wishes to offer any and all aid to the one who supported his ascent to the throne.” It is not a lie but it isn’t the truth either and she can see that the Inquisitor sees rights through it. 

“An odd choice, if you don’t mind me saying.” The golden horns reflect the light of the torches as she turns her head and looks out over the gardens. “Were you not one of Celene’s… pets?” 

Amell does not miss the innuendo of the question and it takes all of her not blush or to avert her gaze. It is a question meant to catch her off guard. “Nothing quite so scandalous, I’m afraid. I was Arcane Advisor to the Court. Nothing more and nothing less. And since we both failed to shield the Empress from the blade, I would say we are all in need of new allies.” 

It’s bold and she bites her tongue but for the first time, the smile on the Inquisitor’s face seems almost genuine. “Very well,” she says and clicks her tongue. “I appreciate the offer. But I’m not sure what you could add to our ranks. We have too many mages already.” As if to emphasize her point, she lets sparks of blue lightning crackle at her fingertips. There is nothing subtle about this woman. 

_Too many mages? Strange, considering how you left the ones in Redcliffe to their fate._

But she does not say it out loud. There is a fine line between bold and reckless and she is not willing to test it tonight. Not with so much at stake. 

“I doubt Gaspard meant it as a suggestion, Inquisitor.” 

The Inquisitor makes an impatient sound, bristling with irritation. “Of course he didn’t,” she mutters under her breath. “And what am I supposed to do with you then? My spymaster tells me you are a Circle mage. You are not trained for a war.” 

Amell tries to keep her expression free of surprise. She should have known that the Inquisition's spymaster would gather information on her as soon as possible. Taking a deep breath, she calms herself before speaking. 

“I am not,” she admits and adds what she hopes passes for a winning smile. “But I have not been a Circle mage for over ten years. And I am sure you are going to need my expertise if you really want to defeat Corypheus.” 

The Inquisitor watches her, her mouth a tight line. “And what kind of expertise is that? Blood magic?” There is a sneer hidden somewhere behind the word - almost discreet enough to miss it. 

Amell shakes her head. “Believe me, Inquisitor. I have seen enough demons to last me for a lifetime. I do not intend to invite any more to my doorstep if I can avoid it.” It’s the most honest thing she has said so far and she sees that the Inquisitor can tell. 

There is a moment of silence between them as the Inquisitor lets her gaze wander over the gardens once more. When she finally speaks, there is an edge to her voice that Amell can’t quite put her finger on. 

“You know, I’ve heard a curious rumor about you.” 

She has seen enough of the Inquisitor to know that she is a woman who does not deal in rumors. “I’m sure you have heard more than one.” 

“That might be true but this one in particular piqued my interest. I heard you used to live in the Ferelden Circle.” She stops, obviously hoping for a reaction, but continues when Amell does not give her the satisfaction. “And since our Commander used to be stationed there, I couldn’t help but wonder…” She does not need to finish the sentence. 

There is no point in denying what the Inquisitor undoubtedly already knows to be true. “I know Cullen, yes.” 

The Inquisitor turns her head then and looks her straight in the eye. For the first time, she seems to be genuinely intrigued. “What happened at the Tower…” Her voice trails off as her eyes flick to the scar on Amell’s neck. “It was a tragedy.” If there is sympathy to be found in her expression, she hides it well enough. 

Amell fights the urge to bring her hand up to her neck. Feeling the scarred tissue at her throat has always been an anchor for her. Something to ground her when her mind is playing tricks on her. But it’s a tell and everyone who takes a closer look will see it for the security blanket that it is. So she balls her hands into fists instead and nods stiffly. 

“It was a long time ago.” 

The Inquisitor gives her a wistful look. “Time is relative in this case, I’m afraid. If Cullen does not agree with Gaspard’s request, we cannot take you with us.” Surprisingly, she seems genuinely concerned. There is more depth beneath the ice than Amell has anticipated. She does not know if that makes it better or worse. 

“I understand,” she says. Her nails are digging into her palms. 

The Inquisitor watches her for a moment. “Wait here,” she says and heads back to the ballroom. Amell stays behind, the balcony suddenly empty and colder than before. The frigid wind tugs at the long skirts of her dress and she hugs herself against the cold. She can hear the music and the laughter from inside but out here it feels far away. As if she has already left the Court behind. She knows there is no turning back. It’s either the Inquisition or the open road again. Without Celene, there is no place for her here. 

When she hears movement behind her, she turns around to find the Inquisitor stepping out on the balcony again. And behind her… Cullen.

He looks even paler than before. The night has left him with dark circles underneath his eyes and shaking hands which he quickly hides by crossing his arms in front of his chest. It also helps to hide the dark stain on his finery. They never got the chance to wash out the wine. 

“I have explained the situation.” The Inquisitor’s smile tells her nothing. 

Cullen stares at her as if he still can’t believe she is really here. She has to remind herself that he thought her dead for over ten years. He needs times. He needs…

“They call you Arcane Advisor.”

Of course he asked around about her. Or maybe he just needed to talk to their spymaster for that. 

“They do.” 

“And that’s what you would be for us as well?” He clears his throat. “For the Inquisition?” 

“You face a powerful enemy,” she says. “One that wields ancient magic beyond most mages’ comprehension. If you’ll have me, my knowledge is yours.” It’s the same speech she has prepared for the Inquisitor. But she is not the one she has to convince anymore. 

“Meddling with ancient magic is what got us into this mess in the first place,” Cullen says and she knows he is not just talking about the Breach. She clenches her jaw, her hands still balled into fists at her sides. She wants to scream. Rain ice and lightning down on all of them. She is so tired of the fear and hatred and suspicion. So tired of running for her life or begging for scraps. So tired of seeing the familiar look of disdain on the face of someone who once used to look at her with nothing but wide-eyed wonder. 

_Sweetness is for children._

She has one last chance. One more attempt. And it all hinges on the hope that somewhere behind that scarred facade, there is still a splinter of the boy left who used to smuggle warm buns out of the kitchen for her. Who used to help her reach the books on the higher shelves of the library when nobody was looking. Who once found her crying in the chapel and stayed with her throughout the night, consoling her without a touch. 

“Cullen, please.” 

His head snaps up at the familiar tone, his eyes wide. 

From the corner of her eye she can see the Inquisitor stiffen. “You _want_ to come with us? I thought this was by imperial decree?” 

“It was. Just not Gaspard’s.” Her eyes flick from Cullen to the Inquisitor and back. “Celene wanted me to go with you. Gaspard just fears me, like the rest of them. As soon as the dust settles, he will not hesitate to get rid of me.” She gives the Inquisitor another look. “Just like he got rid of Briala.” 

“So you lied to us?” There is a fury brewing behind the Inquisitor’s cold exterior and once more, Amell feels the cracking of the ice underneath her feet. One more wrong step and she will plunge into the water below. 

“I did not lie when I said you need my knowledge to defeat Corypheus!” She hates how desperate she sounds but it is all she has left now. “You may be powerful, Inquisitor, but even you don’t know what you are up against. You will never win against him like this.”

“You presume to know a great deal about me, _Arcane Advisor_.” The last words are but a sneer and Amell knows she has lost. 

But before she can say anything, Cullen steps forward. He is still pale and the hand with which he reaches out is shaking as he places it gently onto the Inquisitor’s arm. 

“She is not safe here.” His voice is soft. “Gaspard will have her imprisoned. Or worse.”

“And that is reason enough to make someone an agent of the Inquisition now?” 

He shrugs and there is almost something like a smile on his lips. “We have taken in people for lesser reasons than that, surely.” 

The Inquisitor scoffs but the expression around her eyes softens a bit. “So you’re vouching for her, I take it?” 

“I am.” For a short moment, his eyes flick to Amell but he looks away again before she can react. “If she cannot help the Inquisition in any way, we will let her go. At least from Skyhold she will have a better chance at outrunning Gaspard.” 

The Inquisitor sighs before squaring her shoulders and giving Amell an appraising look. “Then I welcome you to the Inquisition. Don’t make me regret this.” The last part seems to directed at her as well as at Cullen.  
She leaves them, then. Alone on the balcony, the awkward silence weighs heavily on their shoulders.

“Thank you,” she says because she knows she will have to eventually. “You did not have to do that.” 

He sighs, straightening the jacket of his uniform. “Yes, I did. I will not have more blood on my hands. Especially not yours.” 

She can feel her breath hitch. “Cullen, I…”

But he does not let her finish. “We will leave for Skyhold in a week. That should give you enough time to get your affairs in order.” He must have seen the doubt in her face because his voice grows softer. “Don’t worry. You are under the protection of the Inquisition now. Nobody will dare touch you.” 

His earnestness is unnerving and she finds it hard to look at him. He means every word and that only makes it worse. “I really can help, you know,” she says, keeping her eyes trained on the ground. “That part was no lie.” 

“I hope so. It’s my reputation on the line here, after all.” He sounds stern but when she looks up, she finds him smiling at her. A smile so familiar that it cuts her right to the bone. Somewhere in the stranger’s face before her, she finds the boy she once knew. A sliver of hope, the sweetness he buried so deep inside he has forgotten about it himself. 

And he still has no idea what she has done.


	4. but still you stumble

He finds her in the stables. The last truly calm part of the palace, it seems. After the busy bustling that follows in the wake of political upheaval, the dry dusty heat and the soft breathing of the horses are like balm for his soul. 

She does not notice him at first and as he watches her from the large wooden gate, he almost feels like an intruder. She has swapped her ballgown for a simple pair of trousers and a tunic with the sleeves rolled up to reveal her surprisingly tanned and freckled arms. She is brushing down a pretty chestnut mare with confident circular strokes and when she stretches to reach the withers, Cullen sees lean muscles move underneath her skin. It’s an unusual sight on any Circle mages but especially on her who is so soft and round in his memories - not one sharp edge, not one harsh line. 

He clears his throat and steps forward, not wanting to stare from the shadows longer than necessary. She turns around and brushes an errant curl from her forehead. Her relaxed face grows wary when she recognizes him against the bright sunlight streaming in from behind him. 

“Cullen,” she says, halting in her movement. Dust dances through slanting sunbeams in the air between them. He finds it difficult to speak, lost for words once more. 

“I did not expect to find you here,” he finally says. It is not a lie. It has been two days since the ball and he has not seen her since. Some part of him has almost started to believe that he would not find her anywhere anymore. That she had already left. Changed her mind and fled the city. 

She keeps her wary posture, shoulders tense. “It’s the only section of the palace where one can find some peace and quiet nowadays.” After a second, she points up to the darkened wooden beams that hold up the ceiling above. “Also the only place where nothing is gilded.” 

He almost laughs at that. “That seems difficult to find in all of Orlais.” 

There is a hint of a smile on her lips. A moment of camaraderie in this country that is strange to both of them. But when she realizes what she is doing, she frowns instead. The line of her mouth is thin as she keeps watching him, almost like prey would watch a predator. 

It takes him a moment to recognize the look she gives him but when he does, he slowly and deliberately moves away from the open door. He cannot be sure but he thinks he sees her shoulders relax a little bit as soon as her way out is clear again. It’s a behavior he knows all too well and the thought makes him clench his jaw. 

“She’s a beauty,” he says as he steps closer. Gently, he runs two fingers over the chestnut’s soft muzzle. “Is she yours?” 

“Celene gave her to me,” she says, her voice thick with affection. “It was a present. But I don’t know if that means anything anymore…”

He looks up, trying to decide if it’s the loss of the Empress or the horse that pains her more. He has not missed the familiarity with which she speaks Celene’s name. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “The Empress…” 

“Don’t. Celene and I…” She makes an non-committal hand gesture. “It was complicated. We did not agree on much but she offered me protection when no one else would. I do not forget something like that.” She keeps her eyes on him in a way that makes him think she is not just talking about the late Empress anymore. 

For a while, they stand in silence. It’s almost peaceful, with the air smelling of hay and horse and the soft warm fur of the chestnut under his hands. He can see why she would flee here from the noise and ugliness of the court. 

“Cullen,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry. At the ball… I did not mean to scare you like that.”

His hands still and he straightens up. It is an automatic reaction and he knows it but after all these years he cannot stop himself. “I don’t scare that easily.” 

She scoffs, a harsh and unexpected sound. “Really?” Her raised eyebrows and the bitter smile on her lips tell him everything he needs to know. It’s been ten years and she still sees right through him. “Lucky you,” she says and runs the iron comb over her horse’s croup once more. “I still find myself scared of a lot of things, even now.” 

It’s the kind of nonchalant honesty that traps him in his own lie. He cannot pretend, not with her. The realization unnerves him more than he wants to admit. His hand flies up to rub the back of his neck but the way she looks at him then makes him think that she remembers that habit as well.

“You caught me by surprise,” he finally relents. “I did not think I would ever see you again.”

“Because you thought I was dead.” 

“Yes.” 

She sighs and drops the comb into a wooden bucket by the door of the box. The sound cuts through the almost sleepy silence of the stables. Just for a moment, she looks defeated. But when she looks up, she gives him a small smile. Somehow, it’s warmer than before. 

“Will you walk with me?” she asks and the softness in her expression tugs at strings in him he thought had been cut a long time ago. 

He does not know if it’s a good idea, both of them alone together. The words they said to each other last time. No, the words he said. He can still taste them like blood on his tongue. But he knows if refuses, she will not repeat the offer. So he nods and watches her lead the horse into its box with sure movements that tell him just how much time she really spends in the stables. 

He wonders if she learned to ride here in Halamshiral but stops himself before the question leaves his lips. Because he suddenly realizes where the answer would lead. 

Ten years. Ten years of learning what the Circle had withheld from her. Was it enough? Could it ever be enough? He knows that there are things you cannot make up for. A childhood, a youth lost to high walls and bolted doors. 

If she guesses his dark thoughts, she does not let him see it. Instead she leads him through a narrow wooden door at the back of the building. Bright sunlight blinds him and he shields his eyes until they get used to it. Before him sprawls a second set of royal gardens, much larger than the ones behind the palace walls. However, they are no less cultivated. Low hedges of wild roses and small perfectly trimmed trees line the paths of startlingly white gravel. In the distance, Cullen can make out several fountains, adorned with marble statues and ornamentation, all in the Orlesian fashion. The broadest path leads to the edge of a grove of thin tall trees that looms at the edge of the palace grounds. 

“Celene loved to hunt,” Amell explains as she follows his gaze. 

Of course she did. 

“I find it more and more difficult to imagine your life here,” he admits. 

She laughs, a quiet pleasant sound, and it’s so unexpected that it almost startles him. He remembers it, somewhere in the back of his mind where he stores happier memories of his youth at Kinloch Hold. A precious chest of treasures, a few tokens untainted by everything that came afterwards. 

“It’s a long way from the Circle, that is true,” she says and he is hasty to correct himself. 

“That is not…” He sighs and relents when he finds no offense in her eyes. “Yes.” 

They walk in silence for a while and it feels almost normal. The scrunch of gravel underneath his heavy boots and the sound of birds chirping from the ornamental cherry trees at the edge of the path. In the light of day, their fight at the ball seems far away. Not forgotten but somehow obscured by the blinding sun and the heady scent of roses.

He tries not to look at her but finds it hard to keep his eyes from wandering. If he didn’t know of her troubles, he’d say she looks happy. Freckled and golden-haired. Healthy. Like she has found her place. He has to remind himself that she is as much an outsider here as he is. So much so that she has to fear for her life.

“Arcane Advisor.” The title still tastes funny on his tongue. “It’s not what I would have envisioned for you. Although you did spend a lot of time at the library back then…” He does not mention that he always thought she only came there because that was where he had usually been stationed. What has been a silly thought then seems almost insulting now. But she laughs again, neither confirming nor denying his suspicions. 

“There is not much use for a healer at the Winter Palace,” she says and he thinks he hears an old bitterness in her voice. “So I had to find another way to make myself useful.” 

There has to be more to the story but he does not want to pry. “You were good at that. Healing, I mean.” It feels strange to him to talk about Kinloch Hold and not about the horror that has bloodied every single memory of it. Like walking with a stranger’s legs, he thinks. 

“I was,” she says with a wistful smile, then stops to look at him, suddenly uncertain. “I remember now. I healed you once.” She lifts her hand as if to touch him but stops herself in time. 

“You did.” He rolls up his right sleeve to show her the scar, still bright and visible against the suntanned skin of his forearm. “A practice blade. Dull but not dull enough.” He winces at the memory of the cut but even more so at the memory of her hands, bare and shivering. Ghosting over his skin, patching up the bleeding wound. It was the first time she had touched him but he does not say it out loud. As if he could ever forget it. Even afterwards, in the haze of his hatred and fear, that image stayed with him. A girl that held his gaze with confidence but with shaking hands that betrayed her. 

She steps closer and inspects her own work. His rolled-up sleeve has taken away her inhibitions and she traces the ragged line without hesitation now. Her fingertips are warm and soft against his skin. “I would do it differently now,” she says more to herself than to him. “Start with the stitching of the muscle before doing the cleansing spells. There would have been less scarring.” 

“I have learned not to mind the scars,” he says and when she looks up, her eyes automatically flick to the corner of his mouth. Back then, she would have blushed. But now, she just furrows her brow and nods solemnly. 

“That scar,” she says and taps her finger against her own upper lip at the spot where his is cut.

“Kirkwall,” he says quickly. For a moment, he thinks the word alone will be enough to deter her. But it does not hold the same power here as it does elsewhere. 

“Someone must have healed it. That cut must have been deep.” She leans in a little closer to get a better look before she catches herself and steps back.

It’s a painful memory. Not the worst, not the darkest. But painful nonetheless. 

“Someone did. It was right after the Chantry explosion and after Knight-Commander Meredith’s death. We were told to hunt down the last of the runaway mages. We were few and we were weakened. Too weak for the pride demon that awaited us at the docks. It cut us down and then left us to die." He stops for a moment and takes a deep breath. He has not thought about that night in a long time. Pushed it to the back of his mind. "One of the mages we were looking for found me. I was ordered to hunt him and take him down. And he stopped to help me. Saved my life. I would not have made it out without his help.” He swallows hard at the memory. Cold hands on his colder skin. “If I had not been so weak already, I never would have let a mage touch me back then. I wish I could say that was the moment when everything changed… But it was a start, at least.” He cannot remember the last time he told this story. If he ever told it like this. To Cassandra, perhaps. 

She listens and the judgment he fears never reaches her eyes. “What happened after that? What happened to him?” 

“He fled. I had lost too much blood to go after him anyway.” It is the most honest answer he can give her. Not pretty but the truth. 

She looks at him and he knows that this is where she will decide. Here, in the middle of an Orlesian garden in the warm afternoon sun. Here, where all the horror of their lives seems so far away it is almost unreal. Here is where she will decide what kind of man she sees in him. 

“That mage has mended more than one wound then,” she says, her voice quiet and almost a bit unsure. 

“It was a start,” he repeats and it is all he can say. 

She smiles at him, so open and unguarded. And perhaps it’s the sunlight or the smell of the flowers. Or perhaps it’s just being with her again. The last link to a past beyond the things that haunt him at night. But his eyes wander to the scar on her neck and he speaks without thinking. 

“What happened…”

“Don’t.” She sounds cold and harsh all of a sudden. A single word that knocks him down as efficiently as a blow to the head. She takes another step back, her shoulders tense once more and her face as closed off as ever. 

“I didn’t mean to…” He stops himself because yes, he _did_ mean to pry. Irritation flares up inside his chest. It’s unjust but he does not have the strength to care. After ten years, after everything he endured, after everything he told her. Does he not have the right to know what happened? “Who did this to you?” 

She looks more shocked than annoyed. She did not expect him to keep pushing, he realizes. If she takes back another step, she will find herself in a rose bush. “Just… don’t.” 

She turns and tries to walk away but he reaches out and holds her back by the shoulder. She spins out of his grasp and glares at him, something so cold in her eyes that even the afternoon sun cannot melt it. 

Her name falls from his lips, a quiet plea that has her staggering back. “I need to understand,” he says. “I… You were dead. You were lost to me and now…” Words are not enough. They can never be enough. So the unspoken hangs in the air between them. Too heavy and too big to be contained. 

She shakes her head. “We were children.” The answer to a question he did not ask aloud. 

“I don’t care.” It’s not safe ground. They have left safe ground as soon as they stepped out into the sunlight. Or perhaps there had never been a safe ground for them. 

“You should.” Sudden anger twists her face into something almost monstrous. Another side of her he does not remember. “You don’t know me! You never did!” 

“That’s not true,” he says, growing softer where she grows louder. 

“Yes, it is!” She throws up her hands in an exasperated gesture. “You think you know me. You offer me help and protection but you don’t know me. You have no idea what I have done to get here!” 

He recognizes the shame and the fear in her eyes because they are his own. He is almost relieved. This he can deal with. This he knows. 

“There is nothing you can say.” He reaches out once more but she recoils from him, shaking her head. “I don’t care what you di–”

“I saw you, Cullen!” She spits the words like venom. “I saw you in that cage and I saw what they did to you!” 

He freezes, his mind going blank. Wordlessly he watches as her shoulders go slack, all energy drained from her.

“I was there and I did nothing to help.”


	5. who made us this way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with the events of the Broken Circle quest. So there are allusions to sexual assault, torture and gore. Nothing too graphic, but they are there so I think I should warn you beforehand.

During the day she works on the Eluvian and feels like a grave robber. Every minute she spends in front of the deep dark glass, blackens her soul a little bit more. She should be done with using magic that is not hers to use - not help others to do the same. But she keeps her hands steady, healing and cleansing like she would with any patient.

At night she wanders through the palace, wide awake and restless. She does not blame him but she knows the nightmares have gotten worse since seeing Cullen again. His face used to be a thing of dreams, a hushed whisper in the background of her terrors. Now he is real again. A living reminder of the things she saw and of the things she did, even in her waking hours. 

She told him everything. Every word he coaxed out of her. Dug out of the deepest corner of her memory until they both emerged with dirt-soiled hands and tears in their eyes. Black earth underneath her fingernails. Grave robber, she thinks. 

In the early hours of the morning, just before sunrise, when the world is still grey and cold damp, she curls into a ball underneath her clammy covers. Curls around the ache in her chest, the gaping wound even she cannot heal. Sleep comes painfully slow from somewhere in the back of her skull and she almost welcomes the dream it carries in its wake. Even dread can become familiar. 

_This is not how it happened but it comes pretty close._

_The dripping is the first thing she hears. It always is. Tiny drops of red hitting the stone tiles below. And then, so much more quiet, the sobs of someone far too young, made younger still through pain and horror._

_The demon is gone for now. The one that looks like her sometimes. A version she does not recognize. Drifting between forms, changing from whole to broken and back again. But it is gone and she scrambles to her feet, tossing aside the spell that kept her in the shadows. She is weak and tired and will not be able to cast it again, but he needs to see._

_He is naked and bruised, huddled in the furthest corner of his prison. She has seen it all, her own fist bloody from where she bit down to muffle her sobs, but she still wishes he had something with which to cover himself now._

_“Cullen,” she says, so softly it’s hardly a word._

_He whimpers at the sound as if she had yelled. “You are not her,” he whispers without looking up. “Please, no more.”_

_“It’s me. Really me. Please!” She looks around, expecting the demon to come back. Or something worse this time. “We need to go. We need to get you out of here!” She takes a step forward, the glittering surface of the spell in the air in front of her. When she reaches out, the contact singes her fingertips and she jumps back. The aftershocks ripple through her arm._

_At the sound of her gasp, Cullen finally looks up. Sees her in her mage robes, stained with blood and gore. Her wide eyes and pale face. He crawls towards her, a sight that makes her stomach churn. His knees are torn and bloody on her cold stone floor. He says her name, over and over again until the words bleed into each other. She sinks to her knees in front of the barrier and places her hand on the tiles, as close as she dares. He reaches out, his fingers just inches from hers but it might as well have been miles. The dream lingers there, for longer than it should._

_I have never held his hand, she realizes, then or later. We have been… friends for years and I have never even touched him._

_“Don’t leave me,” he says._

_“I need to get help. I can’t…” She swallows “I’m not strong enough to bring down this barrier. I need to find someone who can help.”_

_“There is no one left.” His eyes are different. Dead, she thinks. He is still breathing but part of him is already dead._

_“No,” she says and shakes her head. She refuses to believe. “There has to be someone.” She gets up and he looks at her. Like a child. Like a drowning man. Like someone already lost._

_“Don’t leave me here alone.” It’s a sob now._

_“I’ll be back. I promise.” It’s not a lie then. Not yet, anyway._

_The dream shifts and she has expected it. She knows what comes next. What always comes next._

_Long corridors, broken doors. She recognizes everything and nothing. She slips on something wet and slick and falls. Her fall broken by a body on the floor. Apprentice robes but no face left to recognize. With stinging palms, she scrambles back until a flash of blue catches her eye. A lyrium potion, still intact and sticking out of the dead apprentice’s pocket. Just a heartbeat of hesitation, just a moment, then she takes it and drinks it in two big gulps. The cool metallic taste lingers on her tongue but she can feel the effect already setting in._

_“Always so resourceful,” a voice says behind her, brimming with pride. She jumps to her feet and whirls around._

_“Irving!” she cries out and stumbles towards him. It’s inappropriately informal but she does not care. The old man smiles and takes her hand._

_“I knew you would be the one to survive. Always my star pupil.”_

_Something is not right and she knows it. She does not remember what gives him away. Maybe his too-clean clothes or the lack of horror in his eyes. Or the unnaturally cold skin of his hand in hers. She wants to drop it but suddenly the grip is iron._

_“You are not Irving.”_

_The thing wearing Irving’s face smiles but it’s all wrong. “Clever girl,” it says. “I thought this form would make you trust me.” It cocks its head, drawing her closer with inhuman strength. “Or maybe it’s someone else’s face you’d like to see?” Its features swim, break in front of her eyes. She feels the crackle of the Veil straining all around her. She blinks and it’s Cullen holding her hand. Not the broken boy she left behind but a Templar once more. Proud and tall and smiling._

_“You are not real,” she says. “You cannot fool me, demon.” This is what she has learned. This is what they have prepared her for._

_He does not take my hand. He has never taken my hand._

_But the demon pulls her closer, spins her around in its unyielding grip like a rag doll, until her back presses into it. It feels like she imagines Cullen would feel and the thought makes her fight even harder. She struggles but there is no escape from this. Lightning crackles at her fingertips and sizzles out in a pathetic hiss. The demon laughs and it’s Cullen’s laugh in her ear, low and secret._

_“Is this the form that will let me break you?” There is a hand on her throat. Not choking but caressing her and the thought alone is enough to make her nauseous._

_“No.” She will not give in. She will not yield._

_But perhaps that was never the demon’s intention anyway._

_The grip on her throat grows tighter and the voice whispering in her ear is one she remembers from her nightmares. “You should have let me in the first time.”_

_Sharp nails pierce her skin. She gasps. “Mouse.”_

_Then nothing but darkness and pain and her own screams echoing off the walls._

She wakes like she always does. Cold and shaking, with one hand at her throat. 

“It’s okay,” she whispers to herself. “You’re okay.” Her heart is still beating furiously, urging her to run, but her breathing is slowly calming down. 

She knows she has not slept for long but it is far too dark in her room for this hour. The marble floor is cool under her bare feet as she walks over to the window and opens the heavy velvet curtains. Dark storm clouds hang low over the palace grounds and the ground below is still shining wet from the rain. 

“Fantastic,” she mumbles and sighs. This will make everything so much harder. 

She needs to leave. Even with the nightmare still clinging to her like a bad taste in her mouth, she knows that. Without Cullen vouching for her, the Inquisition cannot help her and she is less and less safe in Halamshiral with every passing day. 

She has not seen him since he fled from her in the gardens behind the stables. She told him everything and knew it was too much. But how could she have gone with him? How could she have accepted his help without telling him the truth?

_I did not come back for him_ , she thinks and a low rumble from the storm clouds above has her shivering. Frustrated, she yanks the curtains closed and turns to face the dusky room again. There is nothing left here for her. In the dark, the gold and blue turn dull and grey. 

There is a sharp knock on the door and she almost jumps, her nerves still taut from the nightmare. 

“One moment!” she calls out and grabs the silk robe from the chair of her dresser. After a moment of hesitation she takes one of the long golden hairpins as well and puts it in her pocket. She does not need a weapon to defend herself but the cool heavy weight at her side makes her feel a little bit better. 

There is a dwarf at the door with a large bundle in his arms and a scowl on his face. 

“Arcane Advisor Amell?” he asks and looks her up and down. She is suddenly very aware of the frilly silk of her robe. Another gift from Celene. She folds her arms and nods. “I was told to bring you this.” 

She steps back and the dwarf enters her room. He is wearing one of the armors of the Inquisition scouts, she realizes after pulling back the curtains once more. The light streaming in through the windows is cold and sparse but better than nothing. The dwarf tosses the bundle on her bed and looks around. 

“Well, isn’t this cozy,” he mumbles under his breath and starts pulling things from the pack. Clothes. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, “but I’m not sure what you are doing.” 

“We leave for Skyhold in two days and you need clothes for the journey,” the dwarf says and gives her another appraising look. “Those fancy Orlesian clothes will not keep you warm in the Frostbacks.” 

She can feel her face grow hot - not sure if from anger or embarrassment. She knows about the Frostback cold. Has she not crossed the mountains on her own with nothing but her own magic to keep her warm? Forced herself to keep going even when there was nowhere for her to go? But she says none of these things. Instead, she shakes her head. 

“You may not have heard. But I’m not going to Skyhold. This is very kind but…” 

“This has nothing to do with kindness,” the dwarf interrupts. “Commander’s orders. And as of this morning, he is not aware of any change of plans. You are coming with us.” 

She runs one hand through her hair, still shaking her head. “You must have misunderstood. I mean no offense, but if you would just ask him again…” 

The dwarf squares his shoulders and shoots her a disbelieving look. “I’m no messenger boy. If you want to clear this up, you will have to go talk to him yourself.” He must have noticed her distress then, because his expression slightly softens. “Look, he personally asked me bring these to you. There is no misunderstanding here.” 

“I don’t…” 

“Believe me, these are much better than any of that Orlesian silk.” He hands her one of the shirts. It’s plain cotton, but well-made and sturdy. “And we need you to make a list with all the other things you want to take with you so we can plan accordingly.” One last worried look and then he is leaving, pulling the door closed behind him. 

She is left standing in the middle of the room, still holding the shirt in one hand. Tentatively, she runs her shaking fingers over the small eye and sword stitched on the chest. This is real. After everything, this is still real. 

Her mind races. Images of him, just flashes, too quick to grasp them. His shock at the ball. The glimpse of kindness behind scars and frowns and sorrow. His smile in the gardens, warm and almost a little shy. 

“You are under the protection of the Inquisition now,” he said. And meant it. 

He is not breaking his promise, she realizes. Even after knowing the truth, after everything she did, he is not breaking his promise. 

She sits down on the edge of her bed and weeps.


	6. electric in your blood

There are not many things Cullen actually likes about Orlais. It is a cultural thing, he supposes. Despite leaving everything behind and despite Kirkwall, there is still a part of him, hidden deep inside his heart, that it undoubtedly, irrefutably Fereldan. Rolling hills of green and ragged cliffs like broken bones. Golden fields of wheat, speckled with wild poppies like drops of blood. Ale and dogs and freshly baked bread. _Simplicity._ His heart still aches for it, after all these years, if he does not push it back into the safe little corner of his heart. Steels himself against nostalgia. 

Orlais is similar at its core, as much as it pains him to admit it. There are farmers here and workers, honest people just trying to make a living and to feed their families. But it pales. A washed-out broken promise lost behind glittering ugliness and deception and the bitter aftertaste of dizzying excess. 

Fereldan after all. 

There are not many things he likes about Orlais. Like the oceans of lavender in the North, stretching further than the eye can see. Or the small flaky pastries Josephine sneaks him sometimes with a knowing smile and all the discretion of a diplomat. Or Halamshiral in the morning. 

The mornings are a crisp and surprisingly quiet thing. The rest of the day is a whirlwind of chaos but in those short hours before sunrise, Cullen finds the halls and courtyards mostly empty and silent. There is something strange about the sprawling palace grounds in the morning. A sense of wrongness just sharp enough to clear his head after another restless night of bad dreams. 

He knows the way to the tower by now and would climb the steps with ease if it weren’t for his tired bones and aching muscles. _I’m getting old_ , he thinks and follows it with a bitter laugh that echoes eerily off the high walls. Thirty years and caught in the failing body of a stranger. He is tempted to blame the lyrium. But years of too much work and not enough sleep may have helped as well. He remembers his own father at this age. Just snippets of memory, a tapestry threadbare from usage. The gleam of an ax swung high above his head. A broad back and broader shoulders. The scratch of his beard when he kissed him goodnight. Laughter so loud and hearty it seemed to sound through the entire valley. All gone now. Wasted away by the Blight and by time. 

Two more steps and he reaches the top, shaking off the past like a wet dog. 

It’s worth it for the view - as silly and trivial as that sounds in his own head. Halamshiral lies before him like a mosaic, glistening subtly in the light of the moons. A new thing created from a thousand broken pieces. From up here, he cannot see the ugliness underneath. No one ever can. He steps to the edge of the platform, fingers brushing over the cold metal of the railing. 

There is a rustling sound behind him and he whirls around, one hand flying to the spot on his hip where he would normally find the pommel of his sword. He grasps only air and curses. Sleep-deprived and impatient he forwent his full armor this morning, eager to leave his stuffy chamber as quickly as possible. _Foolish_ , he scolds himself but then he recognizes Inquisition colors and the tension in his shoulders eases a bit. 

It takes him another heartbeat to recognize the rest of her - so unfamiliar in the familiar armor. 

“So my scout found you,” he says. 

She steps closer, her gait still a bit awkward in new heavy boots. “He did. Thank you for the clothes. And thank you for…” She stops and adjusts the cowl around her neck, not meeting his eye as she nervously shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

“You will need them in the Frostbacks.” He turns his back to her, something he never thought he would be able to do. But perhaps when he fixes his eyes on the city below, he will be able to keep his mind from wandering. Or perhaps she will read it as a dismissal and leave. He would welcome both outcomes. 

Instead she comes to stand next to him, her hands grasping the railing just like his do. From the corner of his eye he can see her looking over the city and the lands beyond. For a moment, that is all they do. All they are. 

“I didn’t think you would want me to come,” she finally says, keeping her gaze fixed on something in the distance. “After… I told you the truth. I did not want to keep you in the dark. You… You deserved as much.” 

“I told you the Inquisition would keep you safe. You are my responsibility.”

“But you hate me.” It’s not a question and it startles him. 

He turns his head sharply and opens his mouth. She keeps looking ahead and her jaw is set. Every muscle in her body tight like a spring. Words fail him. Does he hate her? Has he not felt rage, so hot it threatened to burn right through him, when she told him? But not at her. Never at her. 

“I do not hate you,” he says and she flinches. “Nothing you could have done would have saved me that day. We were all lost the moment we set foot in that blighted tower.” 

She turns her head to look at him, slowly. “Do you truly believe that?” 

Sighing, he runs one hand over his face, like trying to wipe away the memories welling up like tears. “I don’t know.” When he looks back, there are bright spots in the darkness sometimes. “Even at the bottom of a dark pit you might still find gems if you look hard enough.” The words feel like something he might have read somewhere, strange on his tongue. A book or a poem perhaps.

“It doesn’t change the fact that it’s a pit.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees.

The stay silent for a moment. She is frowning in concentration like she is trying to figure out a particularly difficult problem. Him, he realizes. She is trying to figure out him. 

Finally, her shoulders slump, all tension gone from them. “I should have come back for you.”

“If you had you would be dead.”

“Afterwards, then,” she insists. “I healed myself and then I stayed hidden. Even after the Wardens arrived. Even after Uldred was dead and the demons gone. I could have come back, but I didn’t.” 

He thinks about it, a world of lost possibilities blooming in his mind. Paths not taken, doors that were never opened. “There was no one for you to come back to. Not the man you remembered anyway.” 

“What I said to you at the ball,” she says and turns to him. “It was unjust. You are still you. Even after everything they did to you, even after everything you did. That has not changed.” 

He laughs but it’s a dry, joyless sound. “See, you would not say that if you had come back. You would have hated me, with good reason.” His nails scrape against the smooth metal of the railing. “If you had survived my rage, that is. My hatred.” Shame settles on his shoulders like an old familiar coat. He knows it well. 

He can see her fingers twitch but cannot say if to pull them back or to reach out to him. “But you don’t hate anymore. Not even me, after everything.” 

“I have spent too many years with my anger. It has burned straight through me, taken everything from me. Turned my life and body to ash. I…” He stops for a moment and takes a deep breath. “The Inquisition is my second chance. I may not deserve it but the Maker has seen fit to give it to me anyway.” 

She gives him a long look, one he cannot read. “You do,” she says. “Deserve it, I mean.” 

Silence falls over them, but Cullen finds it is not an uncomfortable one. The sky in the east is turning grey, a pale sliver against the night sky above them. He can see the mountains now in the distance, so small he could miss them if he did not know they are there. Skyhold is somewhere between those peaks. His second chance nestled against a mountainside.

“Do you remember me coming to you?” she asks suddenly. “During… When you were still trapped.” 

He has thought about it. Turned her tale over in his mind a hundred times since she told him. “No,” he says truthfully. “There are some things… I have forgotten a lot.” The words do not come easy. They never do. But with her, it feels a little easier. 

“Oh.” She sounds almost disappointed. “I thought…” He feel her shifting next to him, even while keeping his eyes on the mountains in the distance. “That’s why you thought I was dead.” 

Something in her voice makes him turn around. She looks small all of a sudden, even smaller in several layers of armor. Without thinking he reaches out and puts his hand on her arm. “It is a good thing,” he says. “That none of my nightmares were really you.” 

It would not make much sense to anyone else but he can see in her eyes that she understands.

"I still wish I could have saved you." 

"Just like I wish I could have saved you." He takes a deep breath. "But we all need to forgive ourselves one day. It is the way of things." They are Cassandra's words, etched into his brain a thousand times. But he never quite believed them until now. Until he tried to convince someone else of their truth. 

She smiles, a small tentative thing. But to him, it means everything. 

He turns to look at the mountains again and thinks of home. “I think you are going to like Skyhold,” he says. 

“Am I?”

He realizes that he has no idea. Will she like it? Thick walls and soldiers. Templars. They are at war and Skyhold smells of it. “There is a garden,” he says, his voice a bit unsure. “I don’t know how anything like it can grow on a mountain but it is there. And hot springs underneath the fortress. And the cook makes these buns. When you get up early enough he will give them to you still a bit warm with butter and honey.” He motions up to the sky. “At night, it’s not bright like here, so you can see all the stars. More than I have ever seen.” 

“I like that,” she says. “The sky. I don’t care much for ceilings. Or closed doors.” 

“Me neither.” 

They share a smile, despite it all. Despite the implications and the history. They are entitled to it, he thinks. They have crawled their way out of the same pit, after all. 

She feels warm and steady next to him, her shoulder just inches from his arm. And when her hand slips into his, it does not surprise him like it should. It is natural in a way. How it always was supposed to be. How they were never allowed to be. They do not speak, all the words they needed to say out in the open. There is more, he is sure. But for the first time, there is no rush. They have time. Years, if they choose so and the Maker is willing. 

When the sun finally rises behind the mountaintops and bathes the land below in golden light, they stay and watch. Her hand in his is real and warm and it is all he needs for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me and these two sad cats till the end. (Or should I say sad Mabari? They are Fereldan after all.)  
> Your feedback has meant a lot to me and has made writing this a whole lot more fun. :)

**Author's Note:**

> All titles taken from Florence + the Machine's "Various Storms & Saints". 
> 
> You can also follow my [tumblr](http://damnable-rogue.tumblr.com) if you're interested.


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